Aporia

Chapter 5: Secrets, Sarcasm, Shopping Plans, Silk, Sequins, Subtle Panic, and Return Flight

You were back in the doctors' lounge, sipping bad coffee with Elena beside you on the couch, her legs tucked under her like a cat in scrubs.

Your leave had been approved. Three days. Thursday to Saturday. Just enough to attend the wedding and not lose your mind entirely — probably.

Elena nudged you with her elbow. "So… what's the occasion? You? Taking time off? Are pigs flying or did someone finally propose?"

You smirked. "Neither. It's… a family wedding."

Elena raised an eyebrow. "Family?"

You nodded, eyes on your coffee cup. "Yeah. My… sister."

There was a beat of silence.

Elena stared at you.

"I didn't know you had a sister."

You blinked slowly. "Did I never mention it?"

"Uh, no?" she scoffed. "You've worked next to me for four years, and not once did you say, 'Oh by the way, I have a secret sibling.' You talk more about your broken microwave than your bloodline."

You looked away for a second, voice light. "It's not a big deal."

She tilted her head. "Wait—is this the dramatic cousin you said moved abroad? Or someone else?"

You gave a very casual shrug. "It's my cousin's wedding, actually."

"…The cousin who may or may not exist?" she narrowed her eyes.

"Exactly that one."

Elena rolled her eyes. "You're a terrible liar."

"I'm also a tired one," you said, downing the last of your coffee.

Just then, the door creaked open, and Rye strolled in, lab coat slung over one shoulder like a fashion accessory, holding two granola bars and a suspiciously flirtatious smirk.

"Did someone say wedding?" he asked, already grinning. "Tell me you're not leaving me with all the chaos here."

You leaned back, dry. "Leaving you alone for three days is actually part of my wellness plan."

"Heartless," he said, clutching his chest.

Elena groaned. "She's got a mysterious family. You've got soap opera flirting. Why is my life the only one that's boring?"

Rye tossed you a granola bar. "You better come back with a dramatic story. Like secret romance, mistaken identity, or at least one drunken dance."

You caught it easily. "I'll try to disappoint."

He winked. "You always do."

-

You folded your clothes like you were folding an apology.

Neat. Quiet. Controlled.

A dark dress. A formal coat. A pair of heels you barely wear. No perfume. No photos. Just the essentials.

You zipped your bag closed without even realizing you'd held your breath.

The apartment felt heavier than usual as you turned the lights off.

Your plants sat silently by the window. The air smelled faintly of lavender and metal. You wouldn't be gone long. Just a few days. Just enough to pretend.

The taxi was waiting by the curb.

You slid into the back seat, staring out the window as the buildings passed — each one softer, blurrier than the last.

Two days ago, a plain white envelope had arrived.

Inside: Business class tickets.

No note. Just confirmation codes. Paid for. Forwarded by your mother's assistant, most likely.

You weren't surprised.

You weren't grateful either.

At the airport, everything felt strange — too glossy, too clean, too… far away from your routine.

You barely looked up as you passed through security.

Your passport, your coat, your luggage — everything moved on autopilot.

Until you sat down in your seat, the leather still warm from the last passenger, a glass of wine already placed in front of you.

You took a sip.

And exhaled.

The hum of the engine was comforting in a weird way — constant, low, like background noise for your thoughts.

You were halfway through scrolling on your phone when someone slid into the seat beside you.

You looked up.

A man. Late twenties maybe. Tall, clean-cut, with sleeves rolled halfway and a lazy smile that belonged more in a bar than business class.

"Hey," he said casually, buckling his seatbelt. "Didn't mean to startle. You looked like you were in another galaxy."

You blinked once. Then, dryly: "I'm still deciding if I want to come back."

He laughed. "Fair. Ren," he offered, holding out a hand.

"Aria," you replied, shaking it once.

"Work trip?" he asked, sipping something clear from his glass.

You hesitated. "Something like that."

"You don't look thrilled."

"I'm not."

"Family?"

You gave him a sideways glance. "You a therapist or something?"

"Nah. Just someone who's made that same face before walking into a Thanksgiving dinner."

You almost smiled. Almost.

"Maybe," you said quietly. "Something like that."

Ren leaned back. "Well. If we crash, I'll trade you my peanuts for your wine."

You raised your glass slightly. "Deal."

The rest of the flight passed in light conversation.

He cracked jokes. You rolled your eyes. He asked questions. You dodged them. But he never pried. And you appreciated that.

When the flight landed, he gave you a lazy salute.

"Good luck, mystery girl."

You nodded. "You too, therapist man."

At the exit, a black luxury car was already waiting — parked too straight, too silently, with tinted windows and no driver in sight.

You sighed before you even approached it.

As the door opened, cold air hit your face. The kind of cold that came with money. Legacy. Reputation.

You slid inside without a word.

Leather interior. Perfect silence. A bottle of water in the cupholder with your name on a tag.

The driver didn't speak. Just started the engine.

You looked out the window as the city turned to estates, turned to hills, turned to that familiar old world — the one with expensive silence and smiles that didn't reach the eyes.

It had been four years since you walked away.

Now you were going back.

Back to the house that never felt like home.

Back to the mother who called only when it suited her.

Back to Mira.

Back to the name on the wedding card.

Rowan Ashford.

You closed your eyes as the car climbed the long road toward the estate gates.

The suffocation was already starting.

And you hadn't even stepped inside yet.